


Activation

by xCake



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Femdom, Sexism, Sexual Slavery, Smut, Soldat!Bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-07-12 07:49:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19942696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xCake/pseuds/xCake
Summary: At first glance, the Winter Soldier’s activation code sounds like a nonsensical string of words. In reality, each word has been carefully selected to break him just a little bit more. His behaviour is half-compliant at best and fully erratic at worst – and to keep him in line, you put him to use for your own…needs.[ Soldat x Reader ]





	1. Longing

###  **Longing / Желание**

The Asset misses his previous life. You can see it in his eyes. They’re the loveliest shade of pale blue tinged with a little sadness, a little longing, and a whole lot of non-compliance. You can tell that he still remembers who he was in bits and pieces, no matter how many times he’s reset, no matter how many times Hydra breaks him in – how many times _you_ break him in.

In between the bits and the pieces of his fragmented memories, he knows your face. He recognizes you, but he can never remember your name. You’re a scientist, one of many who works on him, programs him, attempts to make him forget. It never works. There is still a shred of himself in there that he refuses to let go. 

That same part of him often wonders what a pretty girl like you is doing in a place like this.

What he doesn’t know is that you’re already broken beyond repair. You’ve worked for Hydra for so long that you’ve broken others, too, under your sharp supervision – so to have him fight so hard against you, against this, against the inevitable, it comes as an unexpected surprise. It’s a change of pace, and you find yourself intrigued by him.

You’re in need of another approach to wipe his memories clean. Nothing else has worked thus far. His behaviour is half-compliant at best and fully erratic at worst, but for some reason he never lays a hand on you. He’s killed other scientists in your team with ease, but he never touches you, no matter what you do to him – no matter how many times you strap him in for another reset or inject some mystery substance into his veins. 

He never resists you.

Seeing him murder your colleagues is just further evidence of his rebellious nature, and it doesn’t scare you as much as it should. Instead, it turns you on. He resists the others, but not you – _never_ you – and it’s ridiculously empowering.

He killed another one so easily right before you left for the evening tonight; snapped his neck like a twig in one hand. He didn’t even need to use the vibranium one because he’s so stupidly strong. 

Your undergarments were soaked through by the time you got back to your quarters. You love those brutal displays of strength, as much as you know you shouldn’t, but what you love more is knowing that he’s all yours. 

He just doesn’t know it yet.

Three in the morning. You’d rather not be seen at a normal hour doing something like this because you _did_ have some modesty, even if it would be infinitely more dangerous without the usual number of armed guards. He’s never hurt you before, though, and you assume that he won’t now, either. Part of you wouldn’t really care if he did either way, because at least then you’d be free. 

In some ways, you're just as caged as him.

There are just two guards posted at the heavy metal door to his containment chamber. You make up some lie about having to get some overnight readings, and they let you in and re-lock the door behind you with three loud _clinks_ in rapid succession. You’re trapped in here with him, but that was the plan. 

His eyes are on you the moment you walk inside the dimly-lit room. You’re alone. He wonders why. 

It sends a shiver down your spine, his keen scrutiny of you. Watching. Waiting. Wondering.

He’s seated on a hard mattress in the corner, away from the contraption in the middle of the room meant to reset him – but it’s never worked as much as it should. He’s only been put through cryo once or twice, but his programming is still finicky and he’s been kept on lockdown while you and your team try to sort it out. So far, it’s been a failure.

This is your new approach.

“Lay down,” you order.

He does, but you know it’s not because he’s compliant. It’s because he’s curious. You can see it plain as day on his face. 

When you get to his bedside, you trail your eyes down his body in the most lascivious way. He’s shirtless: a sight you’ve never grown used to, not really. He’s muscular and strong and so damn attractive even with his brain so scrambled. The scarring on his shoulder doesn’t bother you at all; in fact, you think it adds character. A slight trail of hair from his navel downwards leads you to a pair of loose black pants that you’ve seen him in so many times before.

The moment your fingers reach the tied drawstring on his pants, he takes in a sharp breath and you look back up into his eyes. Those beautiful baby blues are so wide, so alarmed, but you’re not sure if it’s from fear or confusion. Possibly both. You don’t care. 

You keep your eyes on his as you slowly tug on the string, and as it comes undone, he doesn’t resist you. He never resists you. That’s when you notice that his hands are white-knuckled, balled into fists. When you gently touch the back of his warm hand, his grip immediately loosens – and then you pull it under your lab coat to drag his fingers through your bare folds. You’re wearing nothing else. 

When he feels how wet you are, he swears, his voice low and rough before he yanks his hand away. You watch in amusement as the realization comes across his face that you’re completely nude underneath, that you _want_ him. 

You tut at his refusal, though, and hold your small palm in the middle of his chest as you straddle his hips. He’s already rock hard against your thigh.

“You want this,” you tell him.

And he does. He’s not sure if it’s because he _actually_ does or because you’ve brainwashed him into it, but he doesn’t care. All he can focus on is the fact that you want him. _Him._ You’re absolutely soaked for him and he can’t understand how you could ever be after seeing what he’s done – after seeing what he did to your colleague tonight, let alone your colleagues, plural, over the last year or two. He’s forgotten how long it’s been since he arrived here, let alone how many people he’s killed since he did. 

His mind goes blissfully blank when you roll your hips against him, and he can’t help but slide his hands up your silky thighs. He hasn’t felt a woman’s touch in far too long. It’s familiar. He’s done this before. He knows that it wasn’t with you, but he can’t really remember either way.

It’s a contrasting chill, cold vibranium versus hot flesh as his hands come to rest on your hips. When you grind against him again, his eyes are on yours – dark, dangerous, and so, so blue – as you slowly unbutton your lab coat for him to reveal your naked body underneath.

When you drop it to the floor, he feels the heat rise in his face. You’re gorgeous. You’re absolutely stunning and he still can’t understand why you’re here with him when you could be with someone else. You _should_ be with someone else, anyone else but him. He doesn’t deserve this. Not with the things he’s done.

Even still, he can’t help but whisper, “You’re beautiful.”

His compliment catches you off guard, but you relish in it. It’s a glimpse of the real him that you’ve been trying to erase for over a year.

Hesitantly, he trails his hands up your sides to your breasts where he cups them with ease, tweaking your nipples. A soft whimper escapes your lips, but the sound makes him freeze, and he looks up at you helplessly – almost begging you to tell him what to do. He doesn’t know what to do. His body does, but his mind doesn’t have a clue. 

“Don’t stop,” you command, albeit much less firmly than you would have liked.

Your words spur him on and he leans up to take one of your nipples into his mouth, to which you bury your fingers in his hair. His lips are a hot brand on your hypersensitive skin as he kisses your breasts, your chest, your neck—

And then, right before his lips meet yours, you push him back down onto the mattress. Your fingers hook in the waistband of his pants, and you slide them down just enough to pull out his thick length. He doesn’t resist that, either. Instead, his head lulls back from the feeling of your fingers wrapping around his cock. He’s so hard and aching that he’s throbbing in your hands.

He wants this.

You do too.

The head of his cock glides through your slippery folds, and then you sink down on him slowly, agonizingly so. Your slick heat envelops him in a way that he hasn’t felt in ages and he can’t help but let out a quiet groan at the feeling. You’re so tight and wet for him – for _him_ – and he’s almost out of his mind because of how good it feels. Then again, he’s almost out of his mind already.

You love the pleasant burn of him stretching you in a way that you’ve never felt before. He’s much larger than you expected, and thick, but then again he’d injected with super soldier serum so it shouldn’t have been a surprise. The serum enhanced _everything_.

By the time he’s fully sheathed inside of you, you’re an incomprehensible mess.

“Fuck me,” you order, but it sounds more like a plea. 

He complies anyway, holds your hips gently – almost too gently, like he’s afraid to break you, but you can take it all as he soon discovers. You roll your hips with enthusiasm, and his grip soon becomes tighter, almost painful. You’re so fucking wet for him, so slick and wanting and _needy_ that it almost feels like actual affection when your hands start to explore every part of him. You love the feeling of his muscles under your palms; his abdomen, his chest, his arms.

He enjoys all of it, especially the expression on your face: flushed cheeks, half-lidded eyes, soft lips parted while you moan and it’s all caused by him. He’s _making_ you moan. He’s making you feel good, and he enjoys that the most. It’s what inspires him to press his thumb to your clit, like he’s done it a number of times before even though he doesn’t know how he knows; he just does.

That’s when you feel it, that familiar tightening in your abdomen. It was a slow build at first, but the moment he touches you there, tenderly, like a lover, you find yourself already on the brink.

Your moans turn to whines and whimpers and gasps that bring him higher – and then, when you finally shatter, the feeling of your tight walls clenching down around him sends him over the edge. He doesn’t pull out – just buries himself even further inside you, snug against your cervix as he spills inside you with a low groan. He’s so deep that you can feel every spurt of his cum, and you love every fucking second of it, knowing you’re milking him dry. 

It’s empowering, being able to bring such a strong, powerful man – Hydra's Asset – to his knees. Not literally, of course, but he’s pliable like putty in your hands. In this moment, he’s _yours_.

You swiftly pull yourself off of him and absolutely adore the feeling of his cum dripping down the insides of your thighs. He can’t help but stare at the mess he’s made of you until you pull on your lab coat again. You button it back up so casually, like nothing happened at all, but the rapid beating of your heart says otherwise.

“You’ve been good tonight,” you purr, trailing a finger down his chest. “So good for me.”

He shivers.

“Be good for me in the morning, too, won’t you?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw, and he turns his head away from you like a petulant child. You gently pat his cheek in response: a warning to behave.

God, you love it. The power. 

“Goodnight, darling,” you tell him in such a dulcet tone that he almost believes it’s real.

He only looks back at you when he hears the click of your heels as you walk to the door. Your back is turned to him, now, but he watches, transfixed, as you leave. It’s almost unnoticeable, the curvature of your naked ass under the fabric, and although he sees it, your calves and high heels are what really do him in. It’s the only skin he can see, and he finds himself wanting to see more of it again. More of you.

The room smells like sex and sweat and the sweet scent of your perfume. He can’t sleep for the rest of the night.

You, on the other hand, fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow. You’re completely sated, at least for now, and you’re filled to the brim. For once, your experiment was a success; he’d been compliant for you for the first time in months, but it was more than just that.

That night, you dream of him – of who he once may have been. Over the last year or so, you’d caught a glimpse here and there, but tonight you saw more of the real him than ever before.

He called you beautiful. Why would you want to erase that?


	2. Rusted

###  **Rusted / Ржавый**

In the morning, you discover that the Asset is entirely compliant. For the first time in months, he doesn’t resist you or your team while you conduct all sorts of tests and experiments. No matter however painful it is or how much he suffers by your hand, he doesn’t even attempt to resist. He just tolerates it. 

Even so, you can tell that there are still shreds of the real him in there, just like you found the night before. Stunning blue eyes follow you around the underground laboratory, tracing your every feature and curve as you go about your work. It’s almost unnerving, but for some reason, his keen scrutiny doesn't bother you at all. Instead, it makes you wonder if he's only complying because you asked him to.

Every now and then, there's a slight delay before he obeys; a muscle tenses in his jaw, or his eyes harden on yours before he finally does as he is told. His rebellious nature is still there, still ready to break free at any moment. You can see it on his face, but no one else seems to notice the way he’s toeing the line between compliance and disobedience.

Your nighttime visits continue over the next week. It's not a reward for him so much as you following your own selfish desires. You dominate him every night, but it's only because he lets you. He lets you do whatever you want to him.

He doesn't resist when you ride his face; instead, he devours you with such talent and fervour that you know he’s done it before. He lets your hands wander all over his body, and your mouth, and every night you grow more and more addicted to not only the taste of him but the way he fills you so perfectly. 

He knows exactly what to do to make you scream, but he doesn't know how he knows. He just does. 

You love it.

Although you use him for your own release, you always make sure he gets his, too. You're selfish and broken, corrupted by Hydra – but it turns you on, the power and the knowledge of being able to reduce him, the strong, unbreakable Asset that he is, to a gasping, panting mess beneath you. You love the way his cock throbs no matter where he comes: in your hands, your mouth, your core. He's ruggedly attractive, always has been, but never more so than when you catch the expression on his face as he falls apart. 

At night, the Asset doesn’t belong to Hydra. He belongs to you.

You aren’t entirely sure why your visits inspire good behaviour. Perhaps it's gratification, or affection, or companionship – or maybe it's all three, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is that he is finally compliant. 

You’ve done your job well, and it isn’t long before your supervisors get wind of it. Your reports are detailed and thorough, even when you choose to omit the one little detail that seems to be keeping him in line.

You.

After eight full days of one hundred percent compliance, a military officer in a red beret comes down to the laboratory to observe your work. What he sees must be to his satisfaction, because he sends him on a mission – or at least, he attempts to. 

This time, your Asset doesn’t obey. His vibranium hand wraps tightly around the officer’s neck, but he doesn’t make the kill because, in an instant, you command, “Release him.” 

He listens to you. He always listens. 

He lets him go. 

The officer immediately drops to the floor, gasping for breath atop the many scattered papers strewn about from the file he’d been holding. When you stoop to help collect some of them, he barks an order at you to leave the files alone. He sounds weak, his voice rough and strained from harsh strangulation.

You have a top-level security clearance just like everyone else in the room – all men – but these mission details are not for your eyes. No, you’re a woman. If it was one of your male counterparts, he wouldn’t have said a thing. 

It’s a disgusting reality that you despise, but that’s just how the world is no matter how much as you despise it. 

The officer slowly pulls himself back to his feet and dusts off his trousers in an attempt to make himself look every bit the presentable military officer he should be, like he hadn’t just been taken down so easily. He holds his head high, despite the ugly bruises already starting to form on his neck.

You can’t help but scoff at him under your breath. A pathetic man with a pathetic ego. Despite your good work, you’re still just a woman and he clearly sees you as a lesser individual – especially when, in response to your mockery, he backhands you. 

It sends you flying. 

The hard concrete floor is cold and painful when you hit your knees. Blood soon drips from the corner of your mouth, and you can taste the coppery tang of it on your tongue where your teeth must have ripped into the inside of your cheek. Hot tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you hold them back. You won’t give him the satisfaction. 

Instead, you glare up at the officer in defiance only to find that he’s already pinned to the wall, a metal hand right back around his throat. This time, your Asset is merciless. You hear the familiar crack of bones breaking – his neck – and you don’t even flinch.

He deserved it. Good riddance.

One of your male colleagues wraps an arm around your shoulders and helps you up off the floor, but you barely even notice. Instead, all you can focus on are the heated blue eyes upon your own – eyes that trail down to the blood on your lips. He sees red, but he doesn’t act on it. He lets your colleagues take care of you.

Even with the haze of confusion clouding his mind, he knows better than to do anything else. Hydra is always watching. He knows that. You do too. 

As one of your female assistants uses a tissue to gently dab at the blood on your lips, your Asset calmly collects the files. He skims through them, uses them as a distraction until you speak again. You sound entirely too normal, not shaken in the least, when you order, “Complete the mission.” 

He slowly takes in your face once more, this time focusing on the discolouration on your delicate cheek. Your skin is an angry red, with some spots starting to turn blue from the brute force behind the backswing. He finds himself wanting to comfort you, but instead, he offers you a single nod, face some iteration of blank and emotionless. 

Then he leaves just as you instructed him to do, ever the obedient soldier.

Yours. 

* * *

You wake with a start in the middle of the night. Something is off. When you reach for your bedside light, though, it turns on before you even get the chance to even touch it. 

It’s him.

You don’t jump. Instead, you slowly sit up as you take him in. He’s still in his tactical gear and leather vest, weapons strapped to what seems like every inch of his body, but what catches your attention is the blood spatter on his face and neck. 

You don’t need to ask the question, but you do anyway, voice hoarse from sleep. “Did you complete the mission?” 

His eyes trace every feature on your face, and you notice that he’s most focused on your cheek. It’s swollen and bruised, you know; the bruising became more and more evident as time passed until you had no choice but to excuse yourself from your work to cover it with makeup. 

Now, you’ve washed it all away. Your face is bare. Naked. He’s not seen you without makeup before. Even when you went to see him in the dead of night, you still wore it due to societal expectations. 

This time, his scrutiny makes you feel self-conscious. 

“Soldat,” you say, more firmly this time, to which his eyes snap back up to yours. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” he responds, before he reaches out to gently stroke your bruised cheek. You wince when his warm fingers make contact – not because it’s him, but because the skin there is tender and sore. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” 

“You don’t need to lie,” he tells you. “Not to me.” 

Those words shatter something inside of you. He’s right. Why lie to him when you and he already share so many secrets? Over the past week, the two of you have gotten closer, and not just physically; you actually found yourself missing him before you went to bed tonight – missing his touch, his taste, his presence. 

The same reason he came to your bedroom to begin with – just to see you for a moment before he went back into containment. He knew he’d see you in the morning, but that would have been far too long to wait, still hours away. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, you woke before he could leave. 

You’ve put up a facade for so long, now, that you don’t know yourself anymore. You aren’t sure what parts of yourself are real, and what parts aren’t, other than the fact that he makes you feel things that you didn’t think you could feel. Not here. Not now. You’re drawn to him like a moth to a flame, and it’s dangerous.

“Kiss me,” you order, breathy, wanting.

Despite the many times you’ve fucked him over the last week, you never let him kiss you. Not for lack of trying on his part, of course. You chalked it up to his muscle memory taking over.

His fingers hook under your chin to raise your bare face to him, and then he leans down, his lips finally meeting yours for the first time. A spark, almost like electricity, immediately ignites within you and all you can think is that it feels real.

The kiss is sweet and gentle, but not for long; desperation takes over, and you find yourself pulling him into bed with you. You can taste the blood on his lips, but you aren’t sure if it’s yours or his or his victim’s and you don’t really care. All you can focus on is the welcome weight of his body on top of yours as he settles in between your legs: another first. 

His tongue sweeps into your mouth with such familiarity that it takes your breath away. Somehow, he knows what he’s doing. Muscle memory.

Your fingers fumble with the buckles on his tactical gear, but you can’t quite figure it out in the heat of the moment. His kisses make you feel like you’re in a daze, full of lust and longing. 

_Real_. 

That’s when you hear it: a soft laugh against your lips. _His_ laugh. Quiet, and only for a split second. A fleeting dream.

You pull away to stare at him. You’ve never heard him laugh before. 

The expression on his face is soft, amused, and anything you might have said or done is quickly forgotten. He pulls back just enough to let you see exactly how easy it is to unbuckle his gear, almost like he’s teasing you for not being able to figure it out. It takes him just seconds before his chest his bare, and you can’t help but smooth your hands against hard muscle and soft skin. 

Because his temperature runs much higher than yours, he’s always so hot and you relish in the burn of his skin against your palms.

He noticeably shivers at how gentle you are with him. It’s a stark contrast to the version of you he sees in the lab, the public you, the one who runs awful tests and painful experiments on him. He likes _this_ you, along with the affection and gentleness you offer him behind closed doors – almost like an apology. Even when you dominate him and use him for your own gratification, it still peeks through.

When your hands trail further south, you slide his pants down just enough to free him from the constraining fabric. Your fingers wrap around him and he sighs, resting his forehead on your shoulder. Your strokes are slow and teasing despite how much you want this, want him; he knows because the smell of your arousal permeates the air in your small bedroom, and it quickly makes him lose control.

He rucks your nightgown up around your waist, and then your panties are ripped to shreds before he shoves himself inside of you all at once. It’s rough, almost brutal, but you’re entirely too wet, so hot and slick and wanting and he can’t hold himself back. The sudden fullness makes you gasp and dig your nails into his shoulder-blades, but your mind is blissfully blank. 

Tonight, he’s the one dominating _you_. Claiming _you_. 

His thrusts are hard and unyielding, and you wrap your legs around his waist, completely on instinct. You can’t help but surrender your body to him just like he’s done with you so many times in the past. His metal hand is a cold chill against the sweat-slicked skin of your thigh, and his warm one cups your unbruised cheek, pulling you in for another kiss. This time, it’s messy and wet, all tongues and teeth and it brings you higher far too easily.

He swallows every one of your moans until you break away, gasping, “I’m— I’m about to—” 

But you can’t even finish the sentence because his mouth is hot on yours again, and you fall apart beneath him, your legs squeezing tightly around his waist. That coupled with the feeling of your walls attempting to milk him dry sends him over the edge, too, and with a groan against your lips he bottoms out inside of you, filling you to the brim with his seed. You feel every pulse, and you relish in it. In him. 

Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, and when he pulls out of you, you can feel some of his cum slide out along with him. It’ll make a mess of your bedsheets but you can’t bring yourself to care. Instead, you find yourself wanting him to stay – but you know he can’t. 

He knows, too, because he’s already pulling on his gear. 

His face is flushed and his lips are kiss-swollen. You’re sure that you look the same. It’s obvious what he’s just done, and you tell yourself that he can’t go out there looking like that – but deep down you know that’s just an excuse. 

“Stay,” you say, and he looks over at you, lovely blue eyes full of surprise and confusion.

“Why?”

It catches you off guard, because he usually complies without question, and that’s when you realize that you’ll have to reset him in the morning. You’ll have to make him forget. He’s shown far too much of the real him to you tonight, and you can’t let it slide.

That bothers you. 

“You look…” you start, trying to think of a good word for it but all you can focus on is the fact that you’ll have to make him forget. For the first time in over a week, you’ll have to make him forget and with it, he’ll forget this. You. 

No other words come. 

He studies your face as if he can’t make sense of the conflicting emotions upon it. Instead, he complies despite your lack of explanation. He hesitantly lays back down next to you, almost like he’s invading your space, but you let him. 

Of course you do. He’s yours. You’re his. 

Not Hydra’s.

An unspoken truth.

You curl up next to him and rest your head on his leather-clad chest. The way he threads his warm fingers through your hair is sweet and gentle, soothing, and you just can’t help but fall asleep to the sound of his steady heartbeat.


	3. Furnace

###  **Furnace / Печь**

When you wake again, it’s just before sunrise and your Asset is already gone. Of course, you weren’t expecting him to be there, but your heart feels heavy in your chest all the same.

Hydra comes first. You come second.

With him, though, you always come first. Always. 

You just can’t return the favour.

Although you look relatively normal – unbruised, thanks to a heavy coat of foundation – inside you’re a nervous wreck. The walk down to his containment chamber is slow and agonizing; the dread sinks into the pit of your stomach with every step because you know what you’ll have to do when you arrive.

His eyes almost seem to light up when you step into the room. They’re typically such an icy blue, but when he looks at you, that ice melts and what remains is purely him: little hints of warmth and sweetness and care that he only shows when you’re around. If you’re honest with yourself, you’ve grown fond of the way he treats you. You’ve grown fond of _him_.

It’s stupid – no, ridiculous, really, because only a week and a half has passed since your nighttime escapades began. Nine days and you’re already feeling things you shouldn’t, things you didn’t think you could feel anymore. 

Stupid. Naive. 

What’s worse is that too much of the real him is starting to peek through, so much that others will start to notice if they haven’t already. That, coupled with the fact that he’d killed such a high-ranking officer yesterday to protect _you_ of all people. As much as you appreciated it, possibly even loved that he was willing to kill for you, you needed to handle it.

“In the chair,” you instruct, but your voice wavers just slightly on the words. You clear your throat to play it off like you just had something caught there, but you already know he doesn’t buy it. The look he shoots you is wary as he slowly, hesitantly settles into the chair in the center of the room.

He knows what’s coming. So do you.

Those gorgeous blue eyes are so full of hurt and betrayal, but in them there’s also a plea. He’s silently asking you not to do this to him, not again, but your features are hard and unyielding and you have to look away. You don’t want to do this, but you have to.

Hydra comes first. That’s the logical thing to believe in.

When you hold the rubber mouthguard up to his lips, he obediently bites down on it just before metal clamps wrap around his arms and skull – and then, when you flip the switch, he screams.

For the first time in years, you have to step outside. You can’t handle hearing his agony, not now. You make an excuse to your colleagues that you aren’t feeling very well today, and it’s not exactly a lie. Your stomach is in knots and you can almost taste the bile on your tongue because of what you’ve done to him.

Again.

It never used to bother you before, but now it does – now that you know who it is you’re erasing. You might not know his name, but you’ve seen enough of his personality to know that he was one of the good ones. 

He was good. 

Once upon a time, you were too.

* * *

The Asset still misses his previous life. His memories are a jumbled, fragmented mess, but he easily recognizes you. He knows your face. He knows your name. You’re a scientist, one of many who works on him, programs him, attempts to make him forget.

Sometimes it works, but there is still a shred of himself in there that he refuses to let go.

Some part of him wonders what a pretty girl like you is doing in a place like this, but another part seems to know why: you’re damaged just like him, damaged beyond repair. He doesn’t know how he knows. He just does.

Your hands are small and so, so gentle when you brush away some tangled locks of hair hanging in his face. He can’t help but lean into your touch just a little as your fingernails graze pleasantly against his scalp. You treat him so delicately when everyone else acts like he’s unbreakable, and in most ways, he is. He’s a soldier. He’s a weapon. He’s a killer.

To you, he’s a person.

Before he even realizes it, he’s already wrapped his warm fingers around your wrist, suddenly overcome with the need to feel you – to know that you’re real. He doesn’t know why.

The breath catches in your throat at the action. At first, he thinks it’s from fear, but then he meets your eyes – so sparkling and genuine, betraying any emotion you may have tried to hide, not that he understands – and he knows that there is some memory locked away within his head that may explain your reaction. He just can’t access it. He doesn’t know how.

“Soldat.” Your voice is sweet honey to his ears despite the bite in your tone. “Release me.”

His fingers loosen almost immediately, and you pull your wrist from his grasp.

His eyes trace every single feature upon your beautiful face as you close the book, the little red book with a black star on the front, the one that activates something inside of him that he despises. He catches just a glimpse of some bruising on your cheek, but it’s mostly covered with makeup and he wonders if it’s something he caused – if that’s the reason he can’t remember.

“You’re hurt,” he says as you turn your back to him to lock the book away. The safe used to contain it is built into one of the walls, stronger than steel and impossible for him to break into despite his serum-enhanced strength. He must have tried at some point, but he can’t quite remember.

You pause for a moment at his comment, just long enough that he starts to believe that it was indeed him who hurt you. For some reason, that bothers him.

“I’m fine.” Your response is short and succinct, and you secure the safe once again. Then you turn around to address him, but you don’t meet his eyes this time. “Rest up. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

The way you walk out of his containment chamber is brisk, almost like you can’t leave fast enough. If he _was_ the one to hurt you, then it would certainly make sense – but he’s confused and conflicted and his mind is a mess.

The only constant is that there’s something about you he just can’t shake.

* * *

Days pass, and although the bruising on your face heals, the ache in your chest just won’t go away. You try to keep your distance, but you know deep down that it’s because of your Asset. You still see him daily, although not at night despite how desperately you want to crawl into bed with him, how much you _miss_ him.

You miss having him in your bed, even if it was just the once.

In between your tests and experiments, you find yourself wondering about what could have been. It’s stupid and juvenile – a pipe dream – but it provides a welcome distraction. Otherwise, your thoughts wander into more dangerous territory. You try not to look at him, but every now and then your eyes meet and it’s clear that there are unanswered questions just begging to be asked on both sides.

Neither of you verbalize them. Hydra is always watching.

You’re so distracted that you start to make mistakes. Your usually impeccable reports become a little less detailed and a little more careless. There’s a clear detachment from your work that never used to exist before. Truthfully, you don’t want to do this anymore. Any of it. You want to be free of it all, but you’re just as caged as him, trapped in a life of servitude. You can’t resign. Bad things happen to people who do. 

As the days turn into weeks, your mistakes become more and more frequent, so much that your colleagues start to notice. They whisper behind your back, but speak so openly in front of him, like he’s an object that can’t overhear – but he does. He hears it all.

Some of them wonder if you’re losing it. Others think you already have. They constantly put you down, blame your change in work ethic on ‘that time of the month’ or your ‘biological clock’ or any other reason they can think up to oppress you. They say that you’re just a woman and you don’t belong here. You don’t deserve to work on one of Hydra’s most important projects.

You don’t deserve to work on him.

But you do. Somewhere in the bits and pieces of his fragmented memories, he knows how brilliant you are, despite the fact that he’s a bit jaded by the pain you’ve put him through for however long he’s been here. A few months? A year? Two? He isn’t sure, but what he does know is that you’re intelligent. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.

Smart. Beautiful. _His._

If it had to be anyone, he’s glad that it’s you, because you’re the only one to treat him like a person. You didn’t always, but you do now, and that’s what matters to him. What sparked the change is unknown to him, but he doesn’t care.

He appreciates it. He appreciates you.

Not long after that, you’re reprimanded by your boss. He can hear it from the hallway, as can the rest of your team – terrible harsh words shouted right at you, enough to make a weaker person cry, but not you. Instead, you step back into the containment chamber with your head held high, and when you catch his gaze, you stare him down. 

There’s something about the way you look at him that sends a shiver down his spine. Anxious. Dark. Wanting.

Unfortunately, the audible tongue lashing not only undermines your authority, but it emboldens those who would put you down. Snide comments are made under some of your colleagues’ breath, and you start to hear them, too. You ignore them for a long while, literal days – until, eventually, you don’t.

One particular comment sets you off: that, instead of here, you’d be better serving Hydra on your back. He doesn’t hear it in its entirety, but he hears enough. 

Your fingers tighten around the large metal wrench in your hand; you’d been repairing the machine used to reset him – or maybe you were attempting to make it a little more pleasant, but that was probably just wishful thinking on his part. He can’t remember ever seeing you work on it before, just him: his body, his arm, his mind, but his memories aren’t exactly the most reliable.

The way you address your male colleague is calm. Too calm. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“You heard me,” your colleague responds smugly. Too smugly.

The sheer disrespect surprises him. They were getting bolder by the day. He knows he’s killed some of your teammates before, and he has no qualms about doing it again, just for you – but he holds himself back because he’s curious. He’s never seen you anything but calm and collected and put together, but it’s clear to him that you’re angry, especially when he notices that your grip goes so tight that your knuckles turn white.

There’s a brief pause, then, before you spin around on your heel and deck your colleague across the temple with the wrench in one fluid motion. It’s a hard, heavy blow, and only one, but one is plenty. The familiar crunch of bones against metal echoes through the room followed by a spray of blood, but it doesn’t faze you at all.

He doesn’t even have to look to see that you’ve just killed a man. He knows what it sounds like, but he looks anyway. Crumpled in a heap on the concrete floor is the motionless body of your disrespectful colleague, blood gushing like a fountain from the broken skin and skull at his temple. 

The rest of your team stares at you in horror. 

He knows that look. It’s the same way they look at him.

“Anyone else want to share?” you ask, smiling sweetly at the three of them as you hold the wrench down by your side, dripping blood onto concrete.

They quickly shake their heads, to which you return to your work like nothing’s happened at all. Someone squeaks out that they’re going for a break. You don’t answer, but they all leave with their tails between their legs and just like that, he’s alone with you.

Well, alone with you and a corpse.

He’s done terrible things, but never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that you could do the same. You’re so small and delicate compared to him. Pretty dresses and even prettier heels. Even though you work within the safety of an underground compound, not a battlefield, you’re just as brutal.

Even now, with blood spatter on your lips, he thinks you’re gorgeous.

He reaches out before he realizes what he’s doing – uses his thumb to wipe some of it away. Your eyes immediately snap up to his, cautious and guarded, but your eyelids flutter shut when his hand comes to rest on your cheek. 

It’s familiar. He’s touched you like this before. 

Over the past couple of weeks he’s dreamt of it, but now, he wonders if his dreams were actually memories. If so, then he’s certainly done more than just _touch_ you. The fact that you seem to lean into his palm isn’t confirmation, exactly, but he takes a calculated risk nonetheless.

The wrench is still in your hand, but he doesn’t care. He leans forward and then his lips are soft on yours for the briefest of moments – not passionate or heated, but sweet, gentle. The kiss is fleeting and he doesn’t really know why he did it, especially considering the circumstances. 

All he knows is that it felt right. It felt real.

Maybe it’s because he’s just now realizing that you’re just as broken as him – or maybe he knew it all along.


	4. Daybreak

###  **Daybreak / Рассвет**

You aren’t surprised when the containment chamber door is wrenched open, or when a number of military police with familiar red berets walk inside. They’re following protocol – protocol originally instilled because of _him_.

The corpse always gets a military escort to the crematory, never to be discussed again, but his time the escort is for you.

When you’re roughly yanked to your feet by the officer in charge, your Asset shifts in the chair, ready to rip the leather-gloved hand from your arm – but you just shoot him a look in warning, a reminder, and he settles. 

You told him to let them take you, but to him it was torture. Those whispered words were bookended by too-sweet kisses meant to soften his reaction, “They’ll come for me. Do not react no matter what they do.”

He can still feel your fingers trailing down the side of his face, gently brushing a few stray strands of hair away. With those hands, you’ve killed before – more than once. He knows it. And, for some reason, he understands. He just doesn’t know _why_.

Now, the wince coming across your delicate features tempts him to do something, anything, but he doesn’t. He always listens when it comes to you.

Your shoulders sting from where your arms are bent uncomfortably behind your back, but you keep your head held high and refuse to spare him another glance. You can feel his eyes on you, watching every single movement like a tightened coil, ready to spring into action, but he holds back.

Your Asset. All yours. 

He just doesn’t know it yet.

When the door shuts again, he’s left alone – and then, only then, does he allow himself to react. Vibranium fingers wrap around one of the cold metal armrests, his tight grip leaving deep indentations.

He doesn’t know why it upsets him that you’re gone. It just does.

* * *

They torture you for days. Or, at least, that’s what it feels like. Bruises litter your body and your skin is bloodied and raw: an attempt to make you fall back in line.

It all comes as a harsh reminder that your life isn’t yours, not really. It belongs to Hydra. It will _always_ belong to Hydra.

Of course, you’ve dealt with worse. You’ve killed before – colleagues, too many to count, to secure your place at the top of the food chain. Although it’s been a long, rough journey, it’s not yet complete and you’ve already sacrificed your morals and your dignity along the way.

You knew what to expect before you swung the wrench, but you did it anyway. You were too arrogant to let it go. How _dare_ he talk to you that way in your own labratory. How dare he, when you could have seen him dead for speaking to you that way. Dead by your Asset’s hand. Or your own. 

You went for the latter because of your pride.

You expect to be beaten within an inch of death, and you are; the cuts and bruises littering your body are the evidence of that. It’s temporary, you know. Mind over matter. Your intelligence is too valuable for them to waste, and your sway with the Asset is even more valuable. They can’t break you any more than they already have.

Predictably, the beatings stop. They still keep you locked away as a punishment, your only visitors being the guards when they bring you food and water once a day – but you know that you’ve won.

At least until they bring _him_ and you realize that they _can_ break you more.

He’s been wiped again; you can tell the moment you see him. Emotionless blue eyes meet yours, and the breath hitches in your throat. He looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept properly in weeks. The dark circles under his eyes are pitiable. 

You know he’s never really slept well, but you’ve never seen him quite like this – like such a blank slate.

One of the guards unlocks your cell for him, and when he walks in, you find yourself backing away until the cold concrete wall meets your spine. You know why he’s here, but that’s not what bothers you. It’s that he doesn’t recognize you, and, well, of course he doesn’t.

He’s been wiped. He’s been erased.

At last.

When he throws you down onto the bed, your body bounces from his strength, but because it’s him it ignites a fire within you all the same. There’s no sweetness in his touch when he shoves your legs apart with his knee, nor when he rucks your nightdress up around your waist, ripping your panties from your soaked core. Instead, two of his warm fingers slide through your slick heat and he _growls_ – low and deep in the back of his throat. Primal.

The sound only makes you want him more.

Your heart beats as fast as a hummingbird’s wings against your ribcage, chest heaving from desire and want and _need_ despite his rough treatment of you – or maybe _because_ of it.

“Soldat,” you breathe, reaching out to touch his cheek, to feel him. “Look at me.”

Pale blue eyes meet yours for the briefest of moments – but there’s nothing, no spark, no recognition. Then he uses one of his large hands to capture both of your wrists before he shoves them down onto the mattress above your head. You wince from his too-tight metal grip, but that pain pales in comparison to knowing that he’s been erased.

He doesn’t remember you. He doesn’t remember this.

That had been your goal all along, but now you wished you could have stopped it from happening. You don’t want this for him. You don’t want this for _you._

Or maybe you do.

“Stop,” you choke out, struggling against him, but it’s useless. He’s too strong. “Soldat _._ Listen to me.”

The begging is useless too, you soon find, for he uses his free hand to pull down the pants already hanging low on his hips. He’s not wearing any tactical gear, which makes the task infinitely easier. His cock quickly springs free, rock hard and dripping precum and you can’t truthfully say that you _don’t_ want this after all. Some part of you misses him.

That’s what breaks you.

You miss him. You need him.

Only when you finally stop struggling does he slide all the way inside you in one fluid motion. You’re absolutely dripping, you can feel it, but even that isn’t enough to prepare you for the stretch. It makes you gasp, sends you reeling, especially when he doesn’t give you time to adjust – he just starts a rhythm, rough and punishing like his tight grip on your wrists.

For the first time, _he’s_ using _you_.

It works for you anyway. Knowing you’re being used by him only heightens your pleasure, because your mind is three ways fucked from Sunday and you don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong anymore, just that your Asset will take the pain away. He always takes the pain away. 

That’s why he’s here. Not because of Hydra. Absolutely not.

When you roll your hips up against him, he groans, soft and low into your ear. His hot breath fans against the sensitive skin of your neck, and then he sucks a bruise there that makes you arch into him. You can almost pretend it’s affectionate. Almost.

He uses the opportunity to flip you onto your stomach, barely giving you a moment to recover before he yanks you up by the hips, leaving fingerprint-shaped bruises in his wake. You wince from it, a delicate mixture of pleasure and pain that only brings you higher – and then he buries himself inside you again, even deeper than before.

“Soldat,” you sob over and over as his hard thrusts take you to the edge. He’s rough and punishing, but it works all the same; especially when his hand snakes around your waist, metal fingers rubbing familiar circles on your clit. With a sharp, strangled cry, you finally shatter beneath him, burying your tear-stricken face in your pillow.

Hard thrusts morph to gentle as he brings your limp body up against him, your back against his broad chest. His hands caress your breasts, your neck, your stomach as he starts to lose himself in you, hips stuttering, his lips at your ear—

And then he quietly groans your name as he comes apart at the seams. 

His cum splashes a hot brand against your walls, molten heat, and you can’t help but press your ass back against him, ensuring he’s as deep as he can go. You want every drop of him. You need it. 

Your breath comes out in short, harsh pants to match your racing mind as he finally pulls out. He’s never said your name before. It brings heat to your cheeks, the intimacy, and when you meet his eyes again you know he remembers – something. What, exactly, you aren’t sure.

Your throat is dry when you whisper, “What do you remember?”

“You,” he responds, before he presses his lips to yours. It’s soft and tender, the way he kisses you, bringing his hand up to cup your flushed cheek – and then he pulls away, thumb tracing your cheekbone.

You’re breathless when you meet his eyes again, almost starstruck. 

He remembers you.


	5. Seventeen

###  **Seventeen / Семнадцать**

It’s your smile that triggers the memory in him.

He remembers the peach pink dress with a hemline barely skimming your knees, just daring to be too short in such a wintery climate. He remembers the perfectly-styled curls in your hair, the pretty painted pout on your lips, the matching red lacquer on your nails.

American fashion topped with an expensive fur coat – perfect for a czarina, and not at all like what you wore in the laboratory. 

A façade. A front.

The escape hadn’t been too difficult, nor the journey to Moscow. You blended in easily, as did he. Although his programming was finicky, he knew enough to figure out what to do; not that he really needed to, of course, because somehow so did you. 

It was the same reason why you were able to pull off such a good disguise.

Flawless Russian, and English, too – but your accent caught him off guard. American. Just like him. Or at least what he used to be.

The two of you pretended to be tourists, and for a fleeting moment, he had a taste of freedom. Just a taste. Just a glimpse of what life could be like out of Hydra’s tight grasp.

Seventeen hours of paradise. Seventeen hours he’d never forget, no matter how many times they try to torture the memory out of him.

The plan was to blend in until the coast was clear. Too many people looking for you and him. Too many Hydra operatives crawling these streets for the two of you to get in and out of places unseen, but you had to get around, too, so your strategy was to go out in plain sight.

Hence the pretty dress, the primped hair, the painted lips.

A quick dinner in a pub, and then you pulled him onto the dance floor with a teasing, “Let’s have a little fun before we go.”

By _go_ he assumed you meant _back into hiding_.

You didn’t. 

He remembers the soft feeling of your body in his arms and the sweet smell of your perfume. He remembers the slow sway, and the faster swing – the warmth of your lower back against his palm, the sureness of your hand on his shoulder.

Three songs. Three dances. 

Somehow, he knew how to dance. He didn’t know how he knew; he just did.

You did, too.

What you also knew was that the two of you would be caught. Despite the violence and bloodshed when they stormed the pub, the smile you gave him made his heart break. 

They left no witnesses.

But your _smile_ – that’s what he remembers most, and it’s what he sees right in front of him. Even with your delicate wrists in chains and your pretty clothes in tatters, you smile at him anyway. You smile through your tears. You smile with mascara running down your cheeks. You smile until a hard knock to your head strips you of your consciousness – until glossy red trails down the side of your face, the same colour as the chipped polish on your nails.

He kills at least two of them before he’s tranquilized, and your beautiful face becomes a blur. And when he finally wakes, you’re gone. ~~~~


End file.
